Untitled
by starbird1
Summary: A prompt filled for the SansaXSandor LJ comm. "Alternate version of the Tourney of the Hand in which the Hound names Sansa Queen of Love and Beauty at the end."


She was seated near the prince. The pretty Stark girl. Sansa.

Her friend wasn't with her today. _Did she tell?_ He didn't really think so. He knew she was afraid of him. Still, young girls gossiped as though it brought air into their lungs. Keeping his face forward he shifted his eyes to the side and observed her for several long moments. The girl didn't look his way. Sandor's shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch, though he felt the lightest touch of disappointment. The Stark girl - Sansa - had peeped at him all the way down the kingsroad. She'd had her look last night, though. He'd seen to that.

He'd been drunk, as usual. The girl had spent the feast slavering over Joffrey. The prince had decided to be charming and his betrothed, apparently, was of a mind to be charmed. _Damned fool girl._ He spat at the memory.

"Have a care, dog!" Joffrey cried with a look of disgust as the spittle sailed past him.

"My pardons, your grace," Sandor said with a slight bow.

Joffrey wrinkled his nose and, after glaring at his guard for a brief moment, turned to watch the tourney again.

Sandor quietly blew out his breath and cast a dark look up at the sky, returning his gaze to the field when the Knight of Flowers appeared for his tilt. The commons gasped as Ser Loras removed his cloak of forget-me-nots, the sun winking off his sapphire-studded armor. Sandor could see that the girl was taken with him as well. The girl's father, Lord Eddard, frowned and looked at his daughter. Sandor watched, amused. _That one hasn't yet begun to give you trouble_, he thought._ Serves you right when she does._ Then the girl gripped her father's arm and seemed distressed over something.

Sandor looked toward the lists and saw his monstrous brother at the far end. The corner of his mouth twitched. Gregor. Sandor shifted on his feet. He was still slightly sweaty from his tilt against Jaime Lannister. He'd almost been unhorsed, he remembered with annoyance, but he'd won in the end. If his brother should prevail against Ser Loras, the two Cleganes would face each other. _The commons probably wouldn't cheer for either one of us_, he thought grimly.

Suddenly the horses were thundering across the packed dirt. The smallfolk and lords and ladies were shouting and calling out, the ladies for Ser Loras, the men who'd wagered on the tilt, for Ser Gregor. Loras landed the perfect shot and the Mountain That Rides was sent sprawling into the dirt along with his horse.

Sandor laughed long and loud, savoring his brother's embarrassment. Nothing pleased him so well as Gregor being the object of derision, as Sandor himself had often been for the scars he bore. Gregor was not one to suffer injury without reprisal, however, and he nearly severed his horse's head clean off in his rage. A thrum of fear shot through the crowd and the shouts that moments ago were excited curdled into horror.

Gregor began striding down the lists toward Ser Loras. Sandor gripped the back of Prince Joffrey's chair, ready to move in front of him should Gregor be foolish enough to unleash his anger near the royal gallery. The prince was leaning forward with a look of eager anticipation. Sandor heard Lord Eddard yell, "Stop him!" and he looked at the girl. She was crying. _Seven hells, the little bird doesn't need to see her favorite slaughtered after Gregor's mummery yesterday . . ._

He was suddenly in motion. Loras was shouting for his sword and his squire was rushing to bring it to him. _You're no match for him with a sword, boy._ Sandor quickened his pace.

Gregor knocked the squire away and made a grab for the reins. The horse reared but Gregor would not be denied. Sandor was almost upon them. With a savage two-handed blow, his brother knocked Loras to the ground and the Knight of Flowers lay stunned as Gregor raised his sword for the killing stroke.

"Leave him be," Sandor rasped as he clutched his brother's wrist and wrenched him away from the young knight. Gregor spun, surprise showing briefly on his face before blazing into fierce rage. With a roar, Gregor raised his sword and swung it at Sandor's head. Sandor caught the stroke square on the middle of his blade, the force of the blow reverberating down his arms. Gregor pressed down, trying to knock Sandor off-balance, and then, quick as that, he whipped his sword away, the metal-on-metal _shhhhick _a prelude to the _whoosshhhhh_ that presaged a blow aimed at Sandor's left knee. His brother was strong, no doubt, and fast, but Sandor was fast, too. He blocked that shot and aimed one at his brother's arm, hoping to send the huge longsword flying from his hands. _It won't do to kill Lord Tywin's pet._ Gregor parried with a _clank _and ripped his sword quickly upward, again trying to take off Sandor's head. Sandor feinted to the side, his mind barely forming the thought that he would not like the Stark girl to witness his own decapitation, and hefted his sword, with his body's weight behind it, at his brother's ribs. Gregor just barely lowered his weapon in time to block the shot and Sandor immediately slashed at Gregor's other side, hacking again and again, one moment lengthening his muscles in attack and the next feeling them seize to absorb the pounding of Gregor's counterattacks. His brother aimed another deadly stroke at Sandor's head, inflaming his disgust of everything Gregor was. _No matter what else is said of me, I won't be a kinslayer. _Sandor heaved, jabbed, and swung with renewed force.

Time both stopped and streaked by in a blur. He could not have said how long he and Gregor rained blows upon each other. He would never concede. Either he would render his brother powerless or he would die in the attempt. Sandor saw nothing beyond his sword's target. He heard nothing beyond Gregor's grunts and the sound of swords carving the air. They alone existed, they and their past – a past of pain and its infliction, of oppression and domination. Suddenly the king's voice ripped into their private world and bellowed for them to stop. So conditioned was he, Sandor immediately took to his knee. Gregor's last attempt at fratricide hissed over his head and then he dropped his sword and stalked off, fairly crackling in fury.

Suddenly the world contained sound again. The roar of the commons awakened Sandor to his surroundings. He ripped the hound's-head helmet off and stood, breathing heavily. He'd all but forgotten he was in the middle of the yard, watched by the entire court and throngs of smallfolk. Then he realized they were cheering for him. He'd been applauded before but never with this enthusiasm. He was caught off guard by the approval and admiration washing over him from the stands. Sandor stole a look at the crowd and saw the little bird standing and clapping. His breath hitched in his chest and he fought to keep his expression neutral. He looked away from her and saw that Lord Eddard seemed annoyed, but when didn't he lately? Lord Renly, as ever, was laughing. Joffrey was speaking excitedly in his father's direction but King Robert was making impatient gestures with one hand and waving for more wine with the other. Sandor then saw Ser Loras walking toward him, realizing only then that he'd never seen him leave the lists.

"I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser," was all he said, hoisting Sandor's arm into the air.

Sandor, overwhelmed by the noise and the unexpected victory, reflexively answered, "I am no _ser_."

Loras left the yard but his squire was bringing his horse toward Sandor. "That's not my horse . . .," he began to say but the boy interrupted. "You have to crown a Queen of Love and Beauty, ser!"

Sandor squinted at the boy, struggling to comprehend the meaning behind his words. It seemed just a second had passed since Gregor's longsword had nearly beheaded him and now he was faced with the Tyrell boy's horse and something about crowning a queen.

"What?"

The boy gave him an exasperated look. "A Queen of Love and Beauty, ser! You have to crown one. The tourney doesn't really end until a Queen of Love and Beauty is crowned."

Sandor wasn't interested in crowning anything, except maybe his brother first and then this rambling squire. Sweat was running in rivulets down his back. His hair was soaked, he felt generally damp, and he'd been wearing armor all day. Prancing around the yard on Ser Loras's flower-covered mare was the last thing he wanted to do, yet, now that the rush of battle was past, he knew it was expected of him and so, pushing the flowery cloak over the front of the saddle, he mounted the horse to a swell of cheering from the commons.

He rode first to the royal gallery, where he bowed his head to his king and prince. They bowed back and then Sandor began a circuit of the yard. He could scarcely believe that all of this commotion was for him. People were waving and calling out to him, rather than looking away in fear or stealing glances at his scars. He pressed his lips together and tried to look unmoved, though he could not resist nodding here and there in acknowledgement of their praise. He was almost back to where he'd started when he remembered he was supposed to crown a queen. The Stark girl's pretty face stood out amongst the men surrounding her. He stopped Tyrell's horse in front of her. _Joffrey won't like this ... _but that seemed all the more reason to do it. The girl looked unsure and was about to turn away when Sandor ripped a handful of flowers from the cloak. With a gesture more surly than solicitous, he thrust the bouquet of forget-me-nots at her, just then seeing the red rose pinned to her dress and feeling suddenly foolish and annoyed. _The damn girl was just honored yesterday, you buggering fool. Any other girl would have done . . . _His mouth twitched as he realized he hadn't noticed any other girls in the stands.

Her quiet "thank you" was nearly drowned out by Lord Renly calling to Littlefinger, "I told you the Hound looked hungry today." There was general laughter but Lord Baelish didn't join in; he merely stretched his lips into a stiff smile and said, "Ah, but for what?" Ned Stark fixed Sandor with an icy stare.

"I'll walk you down, wolf-girl," Renly said with a grin, moving to offer Sansa his arm.

The beaming smile she gave him made Sandor feel as though he were being poached inside his armor. Damp with sweat and flushed with adrenaline, not to mention feeling ridiculous on Ser Loras's mare, Sandor watched the clean and elegant youngest Baratheon brother sweep the girl through the stands and bring her to the edge of the yard, making her laugh with some jape Sandor felt was probably at his expense.

He dismounted and walked the courser to her. Renly left in the direction of the pavilions and for a second he and the girl were as alone as they could be with hundreds of eyes on them. The crowd by now recognized the prince's pretty bride-to-be and was shouting their approval. Her face grew pink and she looked shyly toward Joffrey, who seemed to be arguing with the king.

Sandor doubted the Stark girl had been to many tournaments. _No doubt she's heard all about them in songs, though._ If so, she'd be expecting some favor of his. Instead, he reached for Ser Loras's cloak, figuring she'd rather have something of his, but the damn thing caught on the saddle. Sandor yanked and it gave way, fanning out with an unintended flourish. He swung the cloak around the Stark girl's shoulders and for a moment was caught by how the blue of the forget-me-nots set off her fair skin and brought out the auburn tone of her hair. The little bird's eyes rivaled the flowers in hue. She smiled shyly, taking hold of the edge of the cloak, turning her head to inhale the flowers' scent, and generally looking anywhere but at him. Sandor's temper flared and, without warning, he grabbed her around the waist and quickly put her on the horse side-saddle. "Oh!" she cried, hastening to arrange her dress and the cloak. Sandor took the reins and led her to the middle of the yard, in front of the royal gallery.

The girl smiled and soaked up the love of the commons, who roared in response to any mark of attention. When Sandor brought the courser to a stop, the din abated just slightly. Not troubling to raise his voice very much, Sandor announced flatly to the king, "I present the Queen of Love and Beauty."

King Robert stood up and applauded. "A fine choice!" he boomed, turning and laughing in the Hand's direction. Lord Eddard looked as though he could not wait another second for the tourney in his honor to end.

Joffrey had risen also and clapped for half a heartbeat before making his way onto the field. "You should have had to joust against Ser Loras. He shouldn't have just given away the win. Father says you won, but you didn't beat Ser Loras _or_ your brother. That's not winning!"

Sandor knew better than to respond when the prince was feeling petulant.

Joffrey stared at his sworn shield for a beat. "Anyway, here."

The champion's purse had barely touched his palm before Sandor set off for his pavilion. _Let him deal with the girl._ He looked back to see Joffrey awkwardly trying to remove his betrothed from the courser and the girl trying to make a graceful dismount without catching her skirts on the saddle or falling into the dirt.

Sandor laughed to himself as his squire rushed up with his helm. "What will you do with your winnings?" he asked excitedly.

Pressing a coin into the boy's hand he said, "Buy wine. Enough wine to forget this day." His mind went back to the little bird standing and cheering for him and he thought, _well, most of it._


End file.
